


P.S. If This Is London...

by You_Just_Mightx3



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Happy Ending, Louis is Harry's London, M/M, Reminiscent, Requited Love, Seperation, angsty, past relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 13:30:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3448934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/You_Just_Mightx3/pseuds/You_Just_Mightx3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Three hundred thirty days gone by. Almost a year. A few hundred days pass before Harry Styles feels relatively whole again. And he enjoys the simple facets of life...but it's probably for the wrong reasons.<br/>The thing is…somehow each and every one reminds him of London.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	P.S. If This Is London...

**Author's Note:**

> Hi.  
> So this fic is simply a little drabble based on the song Austin, by Blake Shelton.  
> I hope you all enjoy it .xx

Three hundred thirty days gone by. Almost a year. A few hundred days pass before Harry Styles feels relatively whole again. Not completely….but he’s living. And he’s enjoying it. Enjoys the walks to the park, enjoys golfing and traveling to practise his photography. Enjoys nights spent in that old pub near Derby with Zayn, then claiming Nick’s humble abode to crash and take up space in. Enjoys cooking and baking and going to class and meeting new people (Zayn, naturally private and to himself, tends to scold him, claiming one day he isn’t going to come home. But everyone starts out as strangers…London did).

Though he enjoys these simple facets of life…it’s probably for the wrong reasons.

The thing is…somehow each and every one reminds him of London.

The walks to the parks remind Harry of short legs that matched his pace simply for the mere fact that Harry had stayed at the pace of the miniature boy. Deer limbs were hard work when you were a besotted boy working to impress another, working to stay on his level. But he’d managed. Or at least he thought so. The walks Harry takes to the park every Friday remind him of this. Even though he doesn’t live in the same flat down the trail anymore. Some months ago he’d started Uni again, started to stay at Zayn’s to rid himself of the bleak solitude that’d taken refuge in his chest…until he’d eventually started splitting the rent, the pay, the _everything,_ and now the two are roommates.

But…back to the walks.

There wasn’t one season untouched by their footsteps.

Not winter in jumpers and scarves and wind-ruffled hair. Always, London always looked beautiful, pale, pale, pale. Pale pink lips, paled skin, pale, almost grey eyes. Harry’s always fancied that look, strolling down the trail to the park in the only quiet winter called. Their shoes, Harry’s boots, London’s sloshing in the snow, leaving temporary footprints (temporary–like them almost. Except London mourned this loss, pouting on the walk back to the flat, always noting the fresh layer of frost that covered their remnants, his “beloved” prints.)

Nor summer in shorts and tank tops (usually on London) and white T-shirts (more Harry) and excited steps because London had loved the footie field and the sun (as it rarely showed itself even then). The high beams kissed London’s skin, brightening his bottomless cerulean gaze. Though Harry wasn’t very much fond of summer…London’s exhilaration was always infectious. And the boy always destroyed Harry in footie.

Nor spring with frizzed out hair that Harry complained over as London’s hair remained a flawlessly teased mess. From then on, Harry’d always pull his hair back into a bun to avoid the unnecessary teasing (London was always a little mischievous creature, a _minx)._

Nor autumn with scatterings of dying leaves: an announcement of the newly approaching winter. Harry remembers raking those endless amounts of fallen leaves, remembers his irritation when London decided it’d be “good fun, bud, good fun” to hop into the meticulous piles, sending the leaves _everywhere_ once again. Yet…he couldn’t find it in himself to be put out with the smaller boy sprawled out with leaves in his hair and that impish grin. London’s flamboyancy was incorrigible. Could never say no. Did not want to give in, or say yes. Always did.

Because London is irresistible…Even now, nearly a year passed, the pangs of loss suffocate him during the cruel hours of the night, snaking between the hollows of his ribs, claws fisting his heart, opening the stitches, adding to the irreparable damage.  Night long asphyxiations.

Grimacing, Harry sweeps the recollection under his mental rug (lumpy with every thought he’s yet to delve into). He’s always been shit at facing his issues…and so is London. That’s probably why they could never seem to work anything out. But they’d been alright still…

Golfing, he thinks, London thought it was boring. “Boring, boring, _booooring,_ ” he’d chide and whine and complain…but he _always_ watched in the crowds through those long hours, a proper cheerleader, along with Niall. And he’d let Harry teach him how to play (or attempt to), his breathing shallow with every brushed, whispered motion, cerulean eyes glazed over with emotion and desire and all things beautiful. Gorgeous. London was _always, always_ gorgeous. Christ, he wishes he could see him now, aches too. His memory doesn’t do London justice…Never could.

The photographs do well enough. Photo’s of London, expressions Harry would witness on the daily, other’s he’d rarely ever see: London laughing, London pouting, London thinking, London pulling those ridiculous faces. London, London, London…his London. Even now, Harry can’t bear to think his name. That would tear a whole new wound. At one point that name was his favourite, spoken, thought, sung…

Christ, he remembers hearing it that first time…in the pub near Derby. By now, his best mate worries over his inability to let go. But honestly Harry doesn’t care–the razor blades of memories that drag through his insides with every sight, scent, sound…they’re beautiful. Achingly, painfully, breathtakingly (more in the sense that the pain tightens his throat until breathing is difficult) beautiful. But that pub…where he’d met them, London and Niall. Both wasted, ridiculously giggly and clingy in their intoxication. London was _always_ clingy, even that first night, but only with Harry. Until the boy refused to go home unless it was Harry taking him…And so Harry did–spent the night nursing the poor boy’s hangover until he was curled up on his chest in the pale moonlight, sound asleep. That was the first night spent with London.

Cuddling with Nick isn’t the same as it’d always been with London. Nor is it especially significant. London _hated_ Nick. And for some twisted reason Harry always loved this, provoked London’s temper and his vengeful nature. They’d argue about it. All night long. With object’s thrown, words spat, comforting apologises…There wasn’t a time it didn’t end up with London being fucked into the mattress, _loud, sexual noises,_ flushed, damp skin, _pleasure pleasure pleasure._ Intense. Burning. The next morning he’d wake up to soft, loving kisses, humming around the house, pattering footsteps. London was always in the best mood after sex. It worked for them…Or it had.

It did. Those nights London would try to help him cook (he was bloody distracting, and they’d forget the food when they were panting against each other’s mouths, London’s legs around his waist, hands buried in his hair as Harry memorised his body with his hands, his hips, his belly, his chest, thighs…More times than not, the food burnt) and baking was messy. Messier than should be possible. But worth it. Every breath spent with London had been–it worked.

And he thinks, some nights, there might be something wrong with him. So screwed up. Because there’s no moving on, emotionally he’s trapped with this internal affection that every blood cell in his body, the vessels and veins streaming with them, carries to keep his heart beating and his lungs from collapsing.

Even so, every now and then, he heaves, when he finds someone in class with looks close to London’s, but nowhere near close enough to that imperfect beauty that animated from the inside, Harry _heaves_ through these corrupted lungs he’s been abandoned to. Until he’s staring at his bloody notes and textbooks blankly, numbed, _lost._ The hurt is _black,_ soulless, boundless in his every twisted nerve ending.

And it lingers both mentally and physically. The tired lurks in his blank gaze, the rings underneath his eyes, the mess of his hair (which he’d grown out since then), the remnants of smiles that are never quite as happy as they once were (because London had left without leaving a number, or any indication of where he’d go, speaking softly in goodbye, “I need to clear my mind…I need space.”) In that moment Harry would have given _anything_ to have been the one on the outside looking in on some poor blokes crumpling life, to be the one to witness the flames of betrayal lurking in his wild eyes, the shake of his hands shoving through his hair, the jagged of his breaths…but he hadn’t been some stranger watching the scene unfold, he’d been the someone enduring it.

So…Harry figures his boy left to London, as he talked on and on and on about the city with opportunities…

Yeah, he thinks, London must be happy there. Without him.

Fuck, does Harry do a brilliant job convincing himself he enjoys life as it is. And in some means he _does._

Just…life doesn’t exist much outside of London.

♥

            Three hundred thirty days, eight thousand thirty five hours. Nearly a year with his thoughts. And Louis would be lying if he claimed he didn’t call Niall everyday to ask…to ask about him. About Harry. And Niall would always say, _“Lou, he’s fine…Calm down._ ”

And he’d ask in the most pathetic voice, curled up in the bed he doesn’t call _his,_ because the flat is empty, lifeless, and so is his every facet of his new life.  _“Does he ask?” ...about me?_

_“I don’t see him much anymore, Lou…He’s out with Z or Nick most of the time. You should ask them.”_ Grimshaw. Louis _loathes_ him. And that Harry is anywhere near him…makes him seethe, makes him cry stupid, angry tears because he has no right to feel this way anymore…but he _does,_ and he regrets his every stupid decision.

And he’s had three hundred thirty days with his thoughts…his thoughts he’d _thought_ needed to be found. Some sort of logic…because Louis couldn’t hold the capacity to love so deeply. Yet, he _did,_ he loved and loved and loved and it _terrified him._

But Harry Styles was his _everything._ Still is.

Gorgeous, cheeky, charming, charismatic and the sweetest talker in England–he’d listen to Louis talk and talk and talk about nonsense like it _mattered._ He’d cuddle him when he’d had a bad day (which meant the day wasn’t so bad by the end), and play about with him when he’d had the energy of a better one. He made _every day of every hour of every minute_ of Louis’s days…worth-while. And he made Louis _better._ People would always say, _“you two are much better together.”_ And _hell_ Louis believed it.

Louis thinks Harry did too–they were inseparable…until they weren’t. Which is his fault…Now, he’s miserable. It hurts more than anything else that Louis _can’t let go._ He needs him…and he realised too late on…but maybe…maybe, he thinks, they can forgive and heal and maybe they’re not completely _ruined._

Blinking back tears, Louis sits cross legged in the middle of the mattress, clutching his phone in clammy hands while struggling to breathe. _I can do this…I can do this…_

But it doesn’t feel like he can.

_Harry. Harry’s always given him the strength._

Somehow his fingers slide over his phone, and type that number that’s been memorized for years…

It rings. And rings. And rings.

Panicked, Louis goes to hang up, but then Harry’s voicemail key tunes in. And his voice… _Oh, God,_ it’s been too long since he’s heard Harry speaks, deep, raspy, _perfect._ Desperate, the boy listens.

_'Hi. If you're still callin’ about the flat, I sold it, so stop calling. Please,”_ so polite, _always,_ “ _If it’s Tuesday night, I’m probably in class. If you have something to sell, yes this is an important message; you are wasting your time. If it’s anyone else, wait on it._

And then it goes quiet…but the voicemail isn’t finished. Louis holds his breath. ' _And P.S. If this is London...I still love you.'_

Stunned, with his heart in his throat, Louis all but breaks the phone trying to hang up. _London._ He’s in London. Where he’s always wanted to be…because he _loves_ London. And he’d told Harry this _constantly,_ when they’d talk about their future…

It’s for him. It has to be…

Harry still loves him…And he still loves Harry.

_Can they try again? Can he learn to…to…trust? Not run. Never run away again._

_He remembers me. He remembers London. And he loves me after all this time._

Swallowing, the boy calls up Zayn, praying desperately Harry’s best mate has something for him to build from, sniffling into the phone when Zayn answers, “I made a mistake,” he breathes, almost hyperventilating, “I…made…a mistake.”

“It’s about fuckin’ _time,_ ” the other mutters into the line.

“What do I do?” he scrambles from answers, then, in a whisper, “Is he there?”

“No. He’s out. With Nick.” Instantly, the boy grimaces, residual resentment battering inside him.

“Doing _what?_ ” he whispers faintly.

There’s a pause. “They’re at the flat.”

_At the flat….Alone…And Harry isn’t answering the phone…Alone. Together._

“I’m going to cut his dick off,” Louis hisses, almost seeing red.

“Lou, stop, you don’t have any right–,” but he doesn’t care to hear this, hanging up and curling in on himself. Breathing is easier in this position, his knees work to hold his lungs from collapsing, though angry, hurting tears ooze past his eyes. _Nick,_ who he’s always envied for his long legs, and his nice eyes…Good looking enough for Harry. Fear crawls up his throat, knowing that Nick Grimshaw’s always been there to worm his way into Harry’s heart like some parasite, and _terrified_ that he’s being replaced.

Louis could _never_ stand to feel unwanted…especially not by Harry Styles.

_He hasn’t been with anyone, you heard Niall, and his voicemail is for you for Christsakes,_ he reminds himself.

But the fear is irrational, the resentment, the need…he’s always been clingy. And jealous. And leaving Harry was the _hardest_ and _stupidest_ decision but _hell_ Harry at least deserves better than Grimshaw. No…they wouldn’t work. He couldn’t make Harry happy…No. Louis won’t let that happen, if only for Harry.

Fumbling, he dials again. And again. And again. At least twenty times.

And every drawn out ring echoes and taunts him until Louis crumples, sobbing into the mattress like some child and feeling more upset and distressed than ever before. It hurts like nothing else, this feeling that’s been building up inside him for three hundred thirty days.  A long time passes this way, scalding tears, hitching breaths, sobs until exhaustion claims him and his body seems to have run out of tears to give.

Numbness cascades over him. Numbness always arrives after an emotional breakdown. Through these times Harry used to hold him through it, not speaking, but clutching his smaller silhouette, and kissing his hair, petting his thighs, and stroking his back until he’d fallen asleep again. Whenever he woke up, Harry wouldn’t be there beside or beneath him…he’d be at the foot of the bed. For some odd reason he’d always ended up there, claiming that Louis deserved all the room and space he needed.

They both learnt quickly that Louis never needed any space. Not from Harry.

♥

            When Louis manages to pull himself together, he goes through his new life. It’s bland. And boring. And he’ll see the park on the way to school and think of the park trail leading up to their flat. He’ll see the autumn leaves and think of Harry trying to be productive and never having the heart to scold him for being terribly inconsiderate, he’ll think of curls and green eyes and he’ll think and think and think until the odds and ends of _them_ spreads warmth through his veins again.

Sometimes in class he’ll remember how he’d watched Harry from the back, gazing, daydreaming, _yearning_ to talk to the curly haired lad but never mustering the courage. Until he’d actually _met_ him, and Harry Styles was better than any image his mind could conjure up. Afterwards, he’d sit close to the curly haired bloke, he’s toss paper in his hair, stick notes to his back, kiss him teasingly (never the mouth) and pass him drawings and notes of penises and babies and silly things…then he’d go home and they’d study (well he was only forced into it) until managing to distract Harry into cuddles and…

Everything had been perfect. So perfect…

But he’d ended that in the selfish terror of becoming so attached he’d never be able to live right without. That he’d screw up, that Harry would, too. That he’d fall so in love and be crushed by the time they didn’t make it…

The feelings are still here…but the separation causes an unimaginable pain…more so than any fear he could hold.

No more fear, he thinks willfully, no more.

Three days pass until Louis is rushing to his first class when he tries again. God, he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say…but he figures it will come to him when Harry does, too.

_‘If it’s Friday, ‘m probably skipping class to go to London’s fall fashion show, and won’t be back until Saturday night. First thing Sunday, if it isn’t raining, I’m headed out to film this lovely world and all its shoddy glory…But I will call back when I’m home…_

Louis’s breathing hitches again, waiting… ' _And P.S. If this is London…I still love you.’_

Once again his heart guns against his ribs, and traitorous tears well in his eyes. Damn Harry Styles for doing this to him. Damn him for coming to London, where Louis’s technical class shoots are, and damn him for reminding Louis how much he _loves_ those silly fashion shows. Harry would always drag Louis to all these posh, over-the-top, irritating places buzzing with posh, fashionable people in their posh, fashionable clothes. Meanwhile, Louis stood beside Harry Styles, also posh and fashionable and gorgeous, in his tattered Vans and messy hair and choppily cut-off shorts…But he’d always get those butterflies in his tummy because Harry wanted to take pictures with him anyway, because he held him close through it all, and took _him_ home every night.

And the first day at that event in Paris, Louis realised he loved him…not like he loved Niall or Zayn…but _loved_ him like he _loved living._ Not because he worshipped his body in bed, fucked him until he was floaty and unable to think anything but _Harry._ Not because he was handsome and fit or had money. Louis loved him because he was cheesy, and sweet, and protective, and all those lovely trains he’d never thought to yearn for in someone else.

“Lou!” someone calls, and the boy jumps, startled, scrubbing hastily at his tears to face the intruder. It’s the boy, Sammy, who’s been his mate for a while now…but Louis has the sneaking suspicion the younger lad fancies him…and hates that he’d only wanted to be friends because Sammy has curls, and pretty eyes…Damn it. “Mate, you’ve been holed up that apartment. All good?”

No, Louis thinks, but it will be.

Staying behind as Sammy ducks into their class, Louis calls again. No answer. But expected. Louis is relentless; never gives up without a fight (expect he had with their relationship…but never again).

This time, he leaves his number, hoping it will give the curly haired lad the impression that it’s important. It is…Always will be.

♥

            When Harry enters his flat Sunday afternoon, he’s aching to crash, dropping his duffle at the door. Trudging through the flat, Harry drops his keys on the table, and starts towards his room, catching sight of Zayn lazing on the sofa, scrolling through his phone.

Noticing him, his best mate looks up, looking oddly concerned, but not voicing it. “Hey, mate, how was it?”

“Mmmph,” he groans, shooting him thumbs up, then dragging himself into his room, and collapsing on the bed.

Before he can fall asleep, Zayn, the twat, plops into bed with him. “You checked your phone yet?”

No, he’d gotten caught up in scenery and angles and lighting. No time for technology when you’re working to capture nature at its "finest". No time when you're struggling to climb hills and rocky slopes while not falling to your death...Nope, none at all.

“I will when I wake up in thirteen hours. I feel like I was beaten with a bag of potatoes.”

Beside him, Zayn laughs quietly, then ruffles his hair, breathing, “I think you should check your phone, bud. Might be somethin’ important. I put it on the nightstand.”

_Zayn and his fucking riddles._

Groaning into the mattress, Harry listens to him shuffle out, shutting the door quietly behind him. Shimmying up to the pillows, Harry grasps his phone and turns the bloody thing on.

Instantly, he’s notified of sixty ( _what the bloody hell?)_ missed calls from a number he’s never seen before. As well as a voicemail. Sighing, Harry dials the voicemail, and listens to a quiet, concealed voice list a number. The same number. Harry wonders why this person would feel the need to repeat it. Annoying. Irksome. Persistent.

Persistency can be irksome. But...

His heart guns at his ribs. Annoying. Insistent. That voice. Almost familiar. Not quiet…too low…No, he thinks forcefully, _can’t be._

Still, his hands tremble when he returns the call. Three rings. And the first response, “ _Shit! Fuck! Cow!”_ Cow…Cow… _God damn it, London, always random and ridiculous._

At the voice, his breathing roughens, eyes stinging. But, “ _Did you try to pull some stunt to get to the phone again?_ ” it’s weak, his voice is.

“Yes,” that sweet, reedy voice whines. “I stubbed my bloody toe.”

It’s not like they haven’t spoken in nearly a year. It’s like they never _stopped_ talking. It’s like his lungs are collapsing, but he’s breathing better than he has in three hundred thirty days.

“Why are you callin’, London?” he whispers, unwilling to get his hopes up. Not to be let down again.

“Haz…” _Damn it…Nobody calls him that anymore…Nobody._ “Haz, if…if you’re calling about my heart, it’s still yours. I know…I know I should’ve listened to it a bit more, but you know…you know how ridiculous I am…you know I don’t know how to act, and you know why it’s taken me this long to realise that I don’t want a life without you…These three hundred thirty days have been the shittiest time of my life…And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. By the way,” a small pause, then a breath, “If you still can’t tell, this is Louis, and I still love you, Haz….I still love you.”

It’s these words Harry’s been waiting to hear again for three hundred thirty days. This boy he’s been waiting on…

London could never compare to…Louis.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, how'd it go?:)  
> .xx


End file.
